Swann's Way
by blacktop
Summary: Memories propel Fusco on a private rescue and recovery mission when Reese's protective instincts and temper flare, jeopardizing his relationship with Carter.


**Swann's Way**

The relentless cold seeped through the soles of his shoes, invading his legs, paralyzing his hips and torso.

Reese stood at attention on the sidewalk beneath the bowed window of Carter's apartment. Watching, remembering.

He could tell from the flicker of lights when she finally turned off the three lamps in the living room. He could tell when she moved through the space toward the kitchen, extinguishing that light too. He assumed she was looking in on her son, perhaps asleep now in his room. Then closing the door again, she would trudge down the hallway toward her bedroom.

He couldn't see anything except darkness from his position now. But he knew the layout so well that he could easily count the number of steps it would take her to cross from her side of the bed to the bathroom. The minutes it would take for her to wash up, how long it would be before she slipped under the thick white coverlet and turned off the light on the bedside table.

He marched across the street and stood next to his black sedan, a gloved hand resting on its hood. The angle on her window had changed from this vantage point, but his eyes never wavered from their target.

He would stay here all night, if she made him.

XXXXXXXXX

"Detective, I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour. But we need your assistance."

The damn cell was upside down as he held it to his head, the mouthpiece hastily pressed against his ear.

Fusco heard the muffled sounds of Finch's voice and wondered how the man could still be chirping at one in the morning.

Flipping the phone around, he grumbled a greeting.

"Hello to you, too. Don't you people ever sleep?"

"Our mutual friend is in need of help, Detective Fusco. I can give you his coordinates."

"No, wait a minute. I'm not getting out of bed to chase after your two-legged Rin Tin Tin. Call Carter on this, why doncha?"

Fusco had raised his voice at the start of this statement, but looking over at the still form beside him in the bed he lowered it when he got to his partner's name.

He had introduced Allison to Carter several weeks ago in a drive-by meeting at the station house. But their friendship was still new enough and the connection still dicey enough that he didn't want to risk the good thing he had going with her by skipping out in the middle of the night if he didn't absolutely have to.

He wanted Allison to have a good impression of him, of his loyalty, of his steadiness. Taking off like this could put the kibosh on their affair, relationship, sex thing, whatever it was. He didn't want to do that without good reason.

"Detective Fusco. I realize this is an intrusion. Please apologize to Miss Baxter on my behalf for any disruption my call may have caused."

The. Hell.

That four-eyed bastard knew about Allison.

Fusco clambered from the bed and retreated to the pale purple bathroom down the hall, stumbling over Allison's guitar, her leather clogs, and her flowered robe as he went.

When he was perched on the edge of the footed tub with the door secured, he resumed his conversation with Finch.

"What is going on? Why can't Carter help out? She has a pretty good bead on his location most of the time. Just call her."

There was a long pause. Fusco couldn't remember a time when he had heard Finch express even the slightest hesitation.

Now Mr. Secreto was giving with the silent treatment?

"Hey, you called me. Remember?"

"Well, I don't believe that Detective Carter is in a position to assist in this matter."

What was this, Twenty Questions?

"Why not? What's wrong with her?"

"Nothing is wrong, Detective. She's perfectly safe."

"O.K. Then I give up. You're gonna have to spill here. Or I'm gonna go back to bed and continue what I was doing. Which was sleeping. For your information."

He heard Finch sigh.

"She and John had an argument. She asked him to leave her apartment."

"So? Happens to the best of us. Waddaya want _me_ to do about it?"

"Mr. Reese has been standing outside the detective's apartment for the past two hours. Without moving, Detective Fusco. Just standing."

"Christ."

Finch rushed on now that the essentials were unveiled.

"I want you to go to his location. Get him to leave, go home, go to bed."

"And you can't do this? Because what?"

"Because I don't think he would welcome my intervention at this moment, Detective."

"Yeah, because I'm such a great Miss Lonelyhearts advice writer. Jesus fucking Christ."

"Detective Fusco, please."

Finch sounded desperate almost. Fusco planned to tuck this moment away in his memories for use another time.

"Well, when you put it that way, how can I resist?"

"Thank you for your help, detective."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Fusco stood up from the tub, staring at the flimsy dress hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door.

He plucked a long blonde strand from the collar and rolled it between his fingers.

He wanted to get this off his chest while the thought was hot.

"And if I'm going to be Ann Landers around here, this is my first piece of advice: Stop with the fucking eavesdropping already. He doesn't need it, I don't need it. Just cut it the hell out, will ya?"

XXXXXXXXX

Reese put up no resistance when Fusco strong-armed him into the car. His hands were ice cold and the tips of his nose and ears were so shiny and red that Fusco winced looking at them.

What worried Fusco the most was that the younger man threw out no questions, no objections. He was often quiet, but this was spooky.

Despite many months of attempts at tracking this reticent man, he still had no idea where Reese lived.

And since no information seemed forthcoming from his shivering passenger, Fusco rolled through the hushed streets toward lower Manhattan in matching silence. He turned up the heater full blast, hoping that the warmth of the vehicle would penetrate, if not thaw out, his friend.

After driving for forty-five minutes, Fusco found himself on a familiar block in the Bowery. He remembered this street. The shadows stretching from the recessed doorways seemed friendly to him, even the potholes dotting the asphalt were in the same old places. Nothing had changed. He liked it that way.

This tired block had escaped the attention of ambitious developers. No aggressive network of scaffolding across its facades supported optimistic plans for renovation and investment. The buildings here were pockmarked by pollution, their stone surfaces rubbed soft and stained by years of human touch.

A few neon signs blinked in welcome at this hour, even though the stores were closed.

But he was sure that the quiet bar he sought was still open.

Swann's Way was small by modern standards and it seemed even more cramped than Fusco remembered it.

The interior was dingy and brown, the racks of polished glasses hanging perilously low over the cracked wood of the central bar. The ornately framed mirror on the wall seemed to absorb as much light as it reflected, casting a queasy glow over the customers and the waiters posed in front of it.

Fusco smiled to see the golden curlicued letters forming the name "Georges" in a flamboyant arc at the top of the mirror, just where they had always been.

The place smelled the same too: a faint whiff of feminine orange blossoms mixed in with the musty male scents of alcohol and sweat.

The few men hanging on the bar rail at this hour were stooped by age or worry or alcohol or all of the above. Fusco thought some of the lined faces looked familiar. But he didn't stop to find out.

There was no hostess to escort them into the place. No one was behind the bar either.

But he knew the way to the sheltered booth in the back where he had spent so many nights and weekends. Without hesitation he led Reese past the gaping fireplace with its embers still glowing and the swinging doors barring entrance to the bathrooms.

They hung up their overcoats on brass hooks flanking the booth and shoved onto the facing benches. The two men, both good sized, could barely squeeze into the compartment. Fusco was surprised that it seemed so crabbed now and dark too.

"I used to come here all the time twenty years ago. Haven't been back in a while I guess."

Reese hadn't asked for the explanation, but Fusco wanted to offer it anyway. Being in Swann's Way again after so much time had passed made him feel expansive and warm, even if his guest was not.

"Yeah, I used to bring Delores here a lot when we were first going out. Those were some times. Getting married put a stop to that of course, but Swann's Way still brings back all the good memories, ya know."

The arrival of a server interrupted the reminiscing.

Dressed in a tight purple t-shirt and matching jeans, his jet black hair streaked with a wide band of more purple, this skinny waiter was a definite anomaly in Swann's Way.

But he took Fusco's order like a pro and quickly brought back the two glasses of Jack Daniels neat with tall tumblers of ice water on the side.

Fusco unfolded a large paper napkin and smoothed it on the table between them as Reese took a first slug of whiskey.

"Give me your cell phone." He laid his own beside Reese's device on the napkin. "And that damned ear piece too."

Folding the napkin around the pile, Fusco carried the package back to the bar. He spoke briefly to a short woman with a blonde pixie cut hair-do polishing glasses there and handed her the phones.

When he returned to the booth, he answered the unspoken question.

"I gave them to Swanetta for safe keeping."

"Swanetta?" This was the first word Reese had spoken in the hour and a half they had been together that night.

"Yeah, the girl behind the bar. Swanetta."

"Girl?"

"Yeah, O.K. Well, I remember back when she was a kid. The first day she came in here looking for work. Fresh-faced, nice figure, no smile. Blonde hair past her waist and brown eyes to die for."

Both men leaned out of the booth to look at the subject of their conversation. She waved at Fusco but didn't smile.

"I guess I had a thing for her once upon a time."

"A thing _for_ her? Or _with_ her?" Reese's eyes had turned sharp again.

"Wise guy." Fusco spoke without bite. Any conversation was a good start, he figured.

"All us regulars were crazy for Swanetta back then. But Georges laid down his marker pretty early and it was lights out for the rest of us."

"Georges, like on the mirror?"

"Yeah, like the normal George but with an S. The owner of this place. French or something. Nice enough but always had a book in front of his face, always reading. Always quoting from some crusty French writer or other.

"The original name of the place was Georges' Bar and Grill when I first started coming here. He used to talk all the time about making it big in America. Opening up a chain of restaurants across the city or maybe even in New Jersey."

Fusco sighed and poured a little of the ice water into his whiskey.

"But then he married Swanetta. Everything changed. Dropped all his big ideas. Named the bar after her. Said he had all he ever he wanted."

Lines on Reese' forehead deepened. "Were they happy, do you think?"

"I don't know. What does that even mean? Happy."

Fusco shrugged and stuck to the facts.

"I do know they had three kids, boys with her blonde hair and brown eyes. She came back to working behind the bar when the kids went to school and never missed a day since."

"Where is Georges with an S now?"

"Died in his sleep about five years ago. Didn't even make it to sixty five, poor fucker."

"Poor fucker." The echo hung in the air between them as they both drew down long gulps.

Fusco shook his head, adding a grace note to the story.

"You smell that orange blossom when we come in the bar? That is Swanetta. She always smelled like that. From the first day. Like you had just bit into the juiciest orange slice ever and it was running all down your chin and stinging where you cut yourself shaving and making your mouth pucker up. But you didn't mind, you just wanted another slice of that orange. That is Swanetta."

They ordered another round of whiskey, doubles this time to save the waiter steps.

When the fresh drinks arrived, they came with two grilled cheese sandwiches. The purple-haired waiter said Swanetta sent them.

On the house, for old time's sake.

Fusco was glad to get the food, because he didn't want to end up the night drunk. The first bite into the gooey cheddar slabs brought a fresh surge of memories. About Swanetta, about Swann's Way.

But Reese cut him off abruptly before he could launch into another story.

"Snow." He spit out the word without preamble. "We were arguing about Snow."

"Yeah, well the weather's been a real bitch since Sandy. That's for sure."

"Not weather. Mark Fucking Snow. She saw him about six weeks ago. Didn't tell me about it."

"Who is Snow, some kinda former boyfriend?"

"He's dangerous for her."

"Look, believe it or not, Carter had a life before you. Whatta you gonna do about this Snow?"

"Eliminate him."

"Whoa there! You can't go all Assassins' Creed on some guy just because he used to date Carter."

"He's not a former boyfriend. He's a cleaner for the Agency."

"That guy? Beady snake eyes? Kept hanging around Carter like a bad rash last spring? I knew he was CIA, didn't remember his name. Couldn't figure out what he wanted with NYPD. Haven't seen him in quite a while. I just thought he skipped town. What's your beef with him?"

"He knows stuff about me, about operations in the past, about things in the present too. He could harm her if she keeps digging too far."

Reese stopped and ran his hand through his hair. The breath he blew out sounded like frustration, but Fusco thought the flare in his eyes said anger too.

"I told her she made a mistake keeping quiet about Snow's return."

"Well, that didn't go over too well, did it? You ever know any woman who _liked_ being told she made a mistake?"

"She put herself in serious danger, Fusco. And worse, she didn't give me a chance to take steps to protect her."

Fusco raised his eyebrows to marvel at the story.

"So let me get this straight: you told Carter that she was stupid _and_ foolish in the same sentence? What did she do? Pull a gun on you?"

"She didn't do anything. Just kept arguing that she knew how to take care of herself. Been doing it for twenty years. Didn't need my protection now."

"Brilliant. The two of you are real beauts, aren't you? So how'd it end up?"

"I threw something."

"Like what?"

"A coffee mug. At the TV."

"Jesus. Bet she loved that."

Fusco shook his head, but didn't want to interrupt further now that his friend was talking.

"I guess I touched her too."

Fusco leaned forward, his chest pressed into the table's edge.

"Touched her how?"

"I don't know, Fusco. I just grabbed her."

His eyes lowered to the table, Reese traced an index finger over initials carved into the dark wood by forgotten lovers.

"I kept picturing her lying in a warehouse somewhere with a bullet in the back of her head. Lying there for days before I could even find her. Her eyes open, her mouth filled with mud, the back of her head blown off. I couldn't get that image out of my mind. Drove me crazy that she was acting so casual about this. Like it didn't matter at all. Like she didn't care what happened to her."

He scrubbed a hand across his face and plunged on.

"So I grabbed her by both arms. And I shook her hard. I didn't want to hurt her, just shake her. Get her to listen to me, understand what I was saying, what I was worried about.

"Where was Taylor in all this?"

Reese twisted his fingers, plucking at the skin above each knuckle like at a ring that was too tight.

"In his room. He came out when she started shouting at me. He saw me shaking her. Shaking his mother. He started towards me, coming at me like a man would. I let her go then. And she told me to get out."

He closed his eyes and Fusco could see the blue-washed lids trembling as if he was re-playing the scene.

"Then you came."

Fusco leaned against the hard back of the booth and sighed.

"Well. I'm a past master of fuck-ups. I know a fuck-up when I hear it. And that, my friend, is a Class A fuck-up."

Both men upended their glasses, eyes trained away from each other.

Fusco leaned out of the booth, waving to the waiter for another round. Before the kid could arrive with the refills, Reese slipped away from the table and pushed through the swinging doors to the latrines.

Although he was prepared to wait it out for a long time, Fusco was relieved that the other man returned after only a few minutes.

His mouth tight and etched by a white line around the lips, eyes glistening, Reese's glare shut off any more questions. When he sat down again, he pushed his untouched cheese sandwich toward Fusco, who slowly cut it in half and chewed the first part with deliberate care.

Before the older man could work his way through the entire sandwich, Reese reached for the remaining portion and took a small bite.

"It's good," was all he said. Fusco knew they were good again too.

The air cleared, a plan of direct action was next. Fusco outlined the strategic approach with authority born of experience.

"Here's whatcha gonna do. Tonight or what's left of it, you go home and get some sleep. You look like hell. Tomorrow I call you when the coast is clear and you come to the station house."

Reese shifted on the hard bench but said nothing.

"Yeah, that's right. You're gonna take the bull by the horns. Not saying Carter's a bull, but you know what I mean. No delaying, no dragging it out, no cards or flowers or candy or none a that. That bullshit's for wimps."

Fusco leaned forward, an instructing finger pointed at Reese's chest.

"You come to her desk, sit down in front of her, tell her you're sorry. Don't give no excuses, or whining, or explanations or nothing. Just apologize, plain and simple. Do it as many times as you need to, 'til she understands you mean it."

"But in the precinct?" Reese's skepticism came out as a low growl.

"That's the beauty part: she can't raise a fuss there because she don't want you to get caught. She'll have to stay quiet and hear you out."

Reese nodded once, accepting the direct orders. The plan wasn't foolproof, but Fusco felt sure it could work.

"And anyway I'll be there to rescue you if she tries to murder you or something."

Reese grunted at the thin joke, but without a smile.

He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a little black ballpoint pen, grabbing one of the paper napkins folded among the condiments against the wall. When he finished writing, Reese pushed the napkin over to Fusco.

As Reese stood and shrugged on his black overcoat, Fusco read the inscription.

The address was in a neighborhood on the other side of the city. He recalled that block, remembered cruising twice up and down that street, tailing Reese one long afternoon, was it a year ago now?

This funny little Indian restaurant in the middle of the block was where he had seen Reese disappear.

So that's where The Shadow hangs his fedora?

Fusco was surprised and grateful for this opening, but smart enough to say nothing.

Reese headed straight to the door and stood outside in the cold, his square shoulders and sharp profile framed in the window of Swann's Way.

At the bar Fusco settled up the tab with Swanetta, beautiful golden-haired Swanetta, whose lined face yielded a smile to him at long last.

She handed back the bundle with the cell phones, which he pocketed.

As Fusco angled out of Swann's Way to join Reese, her orange blossom scent drifted behind him, lingering in the vestibule, a fragrant barrier between the warm past of heady memories and the frost of present days.


End file.
